


i won’t let go, even the smallest memories

by ireallydontknowok



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Lucky One (EXO Music Video), Alternate Universe - Monster (EXO Music Video), Alternate Universe - Universe (EXO Music Video), Kim Jongin | Kai-centric, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Testing - Freeform, Violence, this is the sequel to smth....... or is the other part a prequel to this??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 08:29:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15991472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ireallydontknowok/pseuds/ireallydontknowok
Summary: The others, they don't remember anything.Unfortunately, Jongin remembers everything.





	i won’t let go, even the smallest memories

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING!
> 
> as it says in the tags, this work contains elements of rape and noncon. none of the members inflict these things on each other, and it i don't go into detail, but please don't read this if that would bother you. please stay safe.
> 
> title creds to exo themselves. inspired by the universe promo photos.
> 
> enjoy!!

The water is boiling.

He dips the thermometer into the bubbling water anyway, checking to see if it’s the right temperature. The machine’s boiler heats up to somewhere around 200°, the ideal temperature, but he likes to check. Jongin was always taught to check, can almost feel Junmyeon hovering behind him.

He shakes his head, and swallows. Focus.

He measures the beans slowly, exactly fifteen grams. The last bean drops into the measuring cup, and he picks the whole thing up, pours the beans into the hopper. The machine makes a low noise as it rumbles to life, the sound of the beans being ground comforting in the silence of the room. Sehun had always sighed when there was coffee being ground, pleased at the promise of a warm cup in his hands.

“There,” Jongin murmurs, tongue swiping over his lower lip as he taps the body of the grinder to make sure he has all the grounds. Straightening his back, he pauses a moment, lets the grounds settle, before pouring them, slowly, so as not to spill any, into the puck. He dries the thermometer on his apron, the metal still a little warm, and uses it to stir the grounds, dispelling any clumps that may have formed. Chanyeol had taught him the trick; evenly distributing the grounds makes for better coffee, he’d said. Holding the puck in one hand, and the tamper in the other, he presses the grounds down into a perfectly flat, perfectly round shape. He puts the puck into the handle and picks it up, securing it to the machine.

He’d always been taught that drawing the shot oneself makes the espresso better, but Jonign isn’t so sure. He trusts the machines, not the way Minseok had been suspicious of their quality. Like that one time he’d - No, don’t think. No specifics.

Blinking hard, Jongin measures out twelve ounces of milk. The steaming wand isn’t daunting anymore, the shrill sound of the milk being frothed doesn’t worry him as much as it had when he’d first started learning, when Jongdae had come to him asking why he’d never learnt how to make a latte. But of course, that was a long time ago.

He lifts the lever, the milk warming itself into silence beside him, and lets the water run into the chamber above the coffee. He times it just right, lowering the lever so slowly, drawing the shot into the cup gently, finishing just after the milk stops steaming.

Tip the cup, comes Baekhyun’s voice, so clear and loud, and Jongin has to squeeze his eyes shut so force himself not to turn around. The last time he tried to see if it was him, if he’d remembered, finally, he’d been too devastated to finish the drink. He does as he was taught, though, and tips the cup, pours the milk in.

Yixing had always been best at making designs in the milk, hearts and leaves and even lotus flowers, when the consistency was perfect. Jongin wishes he could have learnt how, but also kind of likes that it’s solely a Yixing thing; it makes it that much more special.

Either way, he’s made a cappuccino today. The milk is light and perfectly aerated, and when Jongin pours it it leaves the espresso mostly at the bottom, the foam and milk combined exactly the way it should be. He puts down the pitcher and picks up the cup, weighing it in his hand, and when he’s sure of it’s perfection, he places it down in front of the person sitting at the table across from him.

“What is this?” Kyungsoo asks. His voice is the same as it’s always been, except that he doesn’t trust Jongin. It makes his heart hurt.

He smiles anyway. “Your favourite,” he says, gentle. “Cappuccino.”

Kyungsoo looks wary as he wraps a hand around the cup and pulls it across the table towards himself. He lifts it, inhales some of the smell, and then takes a sip.

“Mmm,” he hums, and yeah, Jongin knows. He’s an expert at this now. “It’s good.”

“Thanks,” he says. And then, without meeting Kyungsoo’s eyes, he asks, “Does it remind you of anything?”

A beat of silence. “No,” is Kyungsoo’s answer, his nose wrinkling as he scrunches his face up, and Jongin feels his heart break again, as it does every morning. “Should it?”

 

*********

 

The next morning is the same. He measures the beans, remembers what he was taught as he makes the coffee, and comes away with the perfect drink. It’s a flat white this time, with perfect foam and a little white dot in the center of the cup.

“This looks good,” Jongdae says, voice guarded but not unwilling. He picks up the mug and takes a slow sip, eyes slipping shut as he savours it. “It _is_ good. How’d you get so good at this?”

Jongin hopes his smile isn’t too forlorn. “Lots and lots of practice,” he replies, waving a hand at the drink. “It’s yours. You can finish it.”

“Thanks,” Jongdae takes another hearty sip. The room is silent.

“Do you remember anything?” Jongin asks, not hoping for much, and so he isn’t as torn up about it as he would’ve been when Jongdae’s eyes go apologetic.

“No,” he says, voice quiet. “I’m sorry. I really don’t.”

Jongin nods. The lump in his throat is making it hard to breathe. He doesn’t want to cry.

“All I can think about is how perfect this coffee is, though,” he continues, alway trying to make conversation, always trying to make things okay. Jongin feels scooped clean, but he looks up and meets Jongdae’s little smile with a tiny one of his own. “Maybe that’s what’s blocking my memory. The espresso’s just too damn good.”

Jongin laughs once, and it’s wet with unshed tears.

It’s not the coffee, he doesn’t say. He begins going through the motions of cleaning up the machines, the tools he used. Jongdae sips his drink.

 

*********

 

The morning after, Jongin is determined.

Baekhyun watches him closely as he works, commenting from time to time on how tightly he packs the grounds in the puck, or how he looks so professional when he lowers the lever. It’s just like having him back, the quiet moments and pleasant chatter achingly familiar. Jongin wonders if maybe, maybe, something is clicking, slotting into place, but then again, it could just be Baekhyun doing what he does best, and making sure nothing is ever awkward.

“I like my coffee really watery,” Baekhyun says, and Jongin’s heart leaps, the way it does every time he says it. It feels like it’s something, like Baekhyun might be remembering, but it never is. Jongin gave up on pressing on that vein a long time ago. It seems as though watery coffee and small talk are in Baekhyun’s genes.

Jongin smiles nonetheless. “I know,” he nods, looking up at Baekhyun through his lashes to find him looking surprised. “That’s why I made you the weakest americano I could.”

He draws the hot water to top off the drink, and then sets it down in front of Baekhyun.

“How do you know that?” Baekhyun asks, on guard now. He hasn’t moved to touch the mug. Jongin rests his elbows on the counter, dropping his chin into his hands.

“I can just tell,” is Jongin’s response. Baekhyun reaches out for the cup as he continues, “A good barista knows what those he serves would like.”

Baekhyun nods, not seeming to believe him but still deciding he wants to taste the coffee. He takes a sip, smacks his lips after swallowing, and then nods.

“You got it,” he says. He sounds like he knows he’s not privy to something here. Jongin hopes-

Baekhyun just takes another sip. And another. He doesn’t speak again until he’s done his coffee, and even then, all he says is, “Bye.”

Jongin watches him walk to the door, wait for it to open and for the security team to escort him away.

He rubs his face with both hands, trying to stop the tears from falling. He doesn’t know what else to do.

 

*********

 

The next morning is Yixing. Jongin practices the milk once before he’s brought in, making sure he’ll nail it when his hyung is there.

The door opens with a hiss, the panel detaching from the wall and lifting up as the lights in the room brightens, as if to emulate a very quick sunrise. Yixing steps through the doorway, out of the circle of guards who escorted him here, and the door shuts again, the wall completely smooth.

Jongin has his ten minutes, now. He takes a deep breath, watches Yixing walk through the completely sterile white room towards the bleached wood table Jongin is standing behind. He slides onto the seat, and blinks at Jongin.

“Hello,” he says, in Mandarin. Jongin swallows.

“Good morning,” he responds, his accent weighing down the foreign words a little. He raises his eyebrows, and asks, in Korean, “Did you sleep well?”

Yixing tilts his head, and Jongin can see him try to process how he can understand the language. He opens his mouth, as hesitant as he always is when first trying out the language, and when he speaks, he looks surprised.

“Yes,” he says, in Korean, and the look of wonder makes Jongin’s chest swell with wistfulness. “I can understand you. I slept well.”

Jongin nods encouragingly. Some days Yixing doesn’t even remember Korean. Some mornings, he comes to Jongin looking like when they wiped him the night before, they took absolutely everything from him. The first time that happened, Jongin spent the whole morning crying. Yixing hadn’t had it in him to ask if he was okay in Mandarin, or even make a noise to indicate concern. He’d just sat there, slumped, eyes distant and mouth slack, and Jongin went through the motions of making his latte. His hands had shaken so much, he hadn’t been able to pour the milk smoothly. The latte had been bubbly. Yixing hadn’t touched it, though; he doesn’t drink when he’s like that.

This morning is going well, though. Yixing is alert, watching him closely as he measures out the ingredients. He even leans up to peer across the table when Jongin lowers the lever to draw the espresso shots.

Jongin bites back a smile. He adores him, he misses him, he wants him back. He will not mess this up.

The milk is perfect. He tips the cup for the first ounce or so, and then rights it again, moving the milk pitcher up and away, and then back down, smoothly, creating a perfect set of leaves in the centre of the cup. Jongin lets out a breath, and then turns the cup around so it’s facing the right way for Yixing, and places the cup in front of him.

“Pretty,” Yixing murmurs, as if to himself. “I think-”

Jongin’s stomach swoops. He goes completely still, before reminding himself that there’s nothing more abnormal than sudden, absolute stillness.

“Oh?” he asks, trying to play it cool. When he looks at Yixing, his hyung has his eyebrows furrowed, like he’s concentrated. Jongin swallows thickly. If Yixing remembers, he gets to stay. Jongin sleeps in a room with eight other beds, all of them empty, and he walks by all of them every morning. If he’s managed to help Yixing remember, Yixing will get to come back to his room with him. The thought of it, of having his hyung close again, makes Jongin’s heart flutter.

“I don’t know,” Yixing says, finally. He glares at the latte, takes a tiny sip, and then makes a face like it’s making him nauseous. “I’m sorry,” he says, pushing the mug back across the table towards him. “I can’t finish this.”

He gets up, pushes away from the table like he can’t leave fast enough. He doesn’t run to the door, but he doesn’t walk the distance, either. Jongin has his face in his hands, so he doesn’t see Yixing leave, just hears the hiss of the door opening and then shutting again.

 

*********

 

Chanyeol is always the hardest.

The only time he’d slipped up, he was with Chanyeol; his hyung, his rock, his happiness.

They’d done a number on him the night before. Chanyeol had come to him dimmed, slow to respond and quiet with his words. He’d asked Jongin if he was okay, and it had been too much.

“Do you need hyung to help with something?” he’d managed to say, voice thin and body exhausted, and it had broken Jongin, had torn at him more than anything else ever had, more than the punches and kicks he’d endured, more than the burns he’d suffered. Chanyeol, weak and only a shell of who he really was, still offering himself up for Jongin.

“I need you to remember,” Jongin had begged, coming around the table to hold on to Chanyeol’s shoulders. He’d shaken him once, staring him dead in the eyes. “Hyung, I need you to remember. Just try, try to remember.”

“What,” Chanyeol had breathed, eyes wide. “What do I need to remember?”

Jongin had choked out a sob. The door hissed open, and Jongin knew already that he was in for it.

“Me, the Red Force, the eclipses,” Jongin had been pleading with him at that point, the guards flooding into the room. Panic had clawed at Jongin’s chest. “The moons. Us, hyung, remember us. We’re a team, damnit, how could you forget?”

Chanyeol looked stricken, but not like any of those words had sparked anything in him. The guards made easy work of securing him, dragging him away as if he was just a doll.

Jongin, though, Jongin had been screaming, tearing at his own hair, the skin on his face and arms coming away under his fingernails as he clawed at himself, desperation making him ignore the pain.

“I love you!” He’d shrieked, sobs hugging the words. “I love you, Chanyeol, Kyungsoo, Sehun, Yixing. I love you, I love you all! Please!”

They’d taken Chanyeol away by then, the door hissing shut behind them. Jongin had been left with the guards, batons already drawn, circle already forming with him in the center.

Jongin shivers at the memory. The pain was bad, yes, but nothing compared to the fear, the worry, the guilt, that tore him apart for days. He hoped beyond hope that they had been merciful with Chanyeol, who hadn’t done anything wrong, who had suffered because of Jongin.

Today, though, things are going alright. He’s done everything right, has prepared the cold water and ice, the tall glass chilled in the fridge for an hour. The iced americano is going to be strong tasting and perfectly made, exactly to Chanyeol’s taste.

“That smells so good,” Chanyeol comments, leaning forward on his arms, which are crossed on the table in front of him. He closes his eyes, inhaling slowly, and Jongin takes the moment to stare at his hyung’s face. He hope he never has to forget it, never wants to lose any of his friends that way.

Chanyeol opens his eyes, a little smile playing at his lips.

“Is it for me?” he asks, and does an excited little shoulder shimmy when Jongin smiles and nods. “Thank you.”

It’s so earnest, feels so familiar. It feels like Chanyeol remembers.

“Of course,” Jongin says. “It’s my pleasure.”

When he finishes the drink, Chanyeol tries to reach across and take it before Jongin’s even put the straw in. He laughs at himself a little, accepts the drink with a bow of his head. Jongin instinctively bows his head as well, so he hears more than sees Chanyeol’s first sip, hears the pleased hum he lets out when he swallows.

“It’s so good,” he says, voice low and comfortable. Jongin relaxes his shoulders, leaves the cleanup for later. He likes being with Chanyeol, he misses him terribly. Maybe today he’ll try to draw more out of him.

”Hyung,” he says, and Chanyeol looks up, smile crinkling his eyes in the corners. Jongin smiles back. “I’m glad you like it.”

Chanyeol just hums and takes another sip, still smiling around the straw in his mouth. His eyes flick up to meet Jongin’s again. Jongin’s heart swells with adoration.

“How are you?” is Jongin’s question. He tenses, expecting to be swarmed immediately, but guesses that question is safe territory for now. Chanyeol tilts his head to the side, having to think about it.

“I’m… okay,” he says, and then furrows his eyebrows, and looks down. “I think? I’m hurting a little, and I’ve got a headache, but otherwise I’m okay.”

Jongin aches. It’s so hard to have to see his friends like this, having to recall how to express themselves like they never have before. Jongin holds back a shudder when he thinks that, with their memory being wiped every night, every day really is like a whole new start.

“Where are you hurting?” he asks, and Chanyeol squeezes his eyes shut, as if against a bright light. He lets out a small, pained noise, and rubs at his forehead. Jongin’s heart rate picks up. “Chanyeol? What’s-”

“Ah,” Chanyeol gasps out the sound around a swallow. His fists are clenched. “It’s- I-”

“Chanyeol-ah,” Jongin leans across the table, terrified and exhilarated all at once. Chanyeol is remembering, isn’t he? He’s managed to push through the pain and trauma of the tests, the overwhelming horror of what they’re doing to them in the labs, he’s managed to break through and remember something. But if it’s hurting Chanyeol this much already, how painful will the whole process be? Jongin doesn’t want him to hurt. He reaches across the table.

The door hisses open, and guards pour in. Chanyeol doesn’t even seem aware of what’s going on around him, but he does look up again, eyes wide and clear and alert.

“Jongin,” his murmurs, barely a whisper, barely heard over the yelling and stomping and clanking of the guards as they approach.

Jongin’s eyes grow big, his mouth parting in a shocked, speechless gape.

“Wait,” he whispers, his voice gone, all the air punched out of him. Chanyeol has his gaze locked on him as the guards secure his arms and drag him back, the chair clattering to the ground as they haul him out of the room. Jongin comes to when Chanyeol is halfway to the door, the image of his legs working like he’s only half conscious but he knows he wants to stay snapping Jongin back into himself.

“Wait!” Jongin cries, trying to rush forward after them. He’s got his arms out, and the guards catch him around the waist, hold him back. Jongin looks down at the arms holding him back, and then starts pulling at them, trying to pry them off.

When the hold remains unbreakable, Jongin thrashes. “Why?!” he cries, looking at the masked faces of the guards. “He- He remembered, he did! Why did you take him away? He-”

Throughout the room, as if speaking from the walls and floor and ceiling themselves, comes the voice of the Representative.

“You touched him,” they say, their voice as neutral and unidentifiable as ever, and Jongin feels his eyebrows draw together.  He didn’t touch Chanyeol, he’s sure of it. And either way, no _prolonged_ contact is the rule; Jongin has touched his fingers to his friends’ arms, shoulders, hands, never with such a reprimand.

“I didn’t,” he argues. He squirms trying to break free of the guards. “Let me go, bring him back. I did it! He remembered!”

The door hisses shut. Jongin is released. He rounds on the guards, angry now.

“What the fuck is this?” he spits, looking from guard to guard. They’ve come to stand in a circle around him. Fear creeps up his throat, the adrenaline turning into white hot terror. They’re going to kill him.

“You touched him,” the voice says again. “You violated clause 8.24 of the contract you signed with us at the beginning of this experiment. The clause states that-”

The voice is drowned out when the first blow comes. It keeps speaking, but Jongin has to focus on keeping his arms up around his head, on making sure to keep his sounds in as much as he can, as the batons are drawn and knuckles are cracked.

He thinks it’s over once the guards take a step back, and he tries to breathe properly again through the pain in his ribs, his arms, his back, his stomach. A hand slides into his hair, wrenches him upright, so he’s sitting with his legs splayed out in front of him. He rolls his head back, gaze lifting, and he expects to see a gun pointed between his eyes. Instead, he’s greeted with the sight of one of the guards stepping forward, baton at his hip and hands fiddling with the buckle of his belt. Jongin’s eyes go wide, but he purses his lips shut, clenches his jaw as the man behind him grabs his chin to keep his head angled up.

As the guard gets his belt undone and starts on his heavy protective pants, the voice rings through the room, clear as a bell. “Your privileges will be revoked if you breach the agreements again. This is forgiveness.”

 

*********

 

The next morning is rough.

Jongin has to fight himself just to be able to sit up, limbs aching. His ribs feel bruised, his jaw hurts, his lips are cracked and dry. When he manages to get himself out of bed, he touches at his left cheekbone, fingers gently prodding to confirm that yeah, that’s a bruise. He’d tried, of course, to bite down, and, of course, it had only resulted in them kicking him in the face. In the moment, he’d wondered if the bone was shattered, but it quickly hadn’t mattered, not in the face of the o-ring gag being brought out.

“Take it,” one of the guards’ voices rings through his head. He shakes himself, tries to get rid of the voice, but he still catches the muttered, “Bitch.” that had followed.

No, no, no. That’s bad. Don’t think about that. Jongin forces everything besides pain pain pain away by hauling himself to his feet. His knees hurt. His neck hurts. His thighs hurt. He hurts.

But he has a duty.

As he reaches under his cot, pulling the box that holds all of his worldly possessions to take out his clothes for today, the standard issue all white outfit, always a little stiff and starchy, he concentrates on who he’s seeing today.

Today is Sehun, his Sehun, his best friend, the person who probably knows his struggles the most.

Knew. Sehun knew his struggles.

Dressing is difficult when you’re in pain all over, and you’re trying to see through tears.

When Sehun joins him in the sparse room, it’s obvious, as always, that he could not remember, even if he wanted to. Not by himself, anyway.

Jongin takes a deep breath, ribs aching as he fills his lungs.

“Hey,” he says. His lips threaten to crack and bleed. He licks them, already swirling the milk in the tall ceramic mug provided for today. He’s got a caramel macchiato, sweet as anything, in the works. Sehun slides into the seat across the table, hands spread wide over the wood as he folds his legs together under the table. He’s always been able to make himself small and big, all at once. Jongin adds his heart to the list of things that are hurting.

The vanilla is mixed with the milk by now. Sehun opens his mouth.

“I miss sweet things,” he says, and Jongin’s breath catches. Sehun’s not wondering it, he’s not fuzzy on the details of his preferences, no. It’s a fact. He misses sweet things. “I used to have them a lot.”

Jongin almost forgets to draw the shots of espresso into the small white espresso cup. He’s not sure what to do with this. “Yeah,” he breathes, nodding. The espresso is perfect, if not drawn a little early. “Yeah?”

Sehun tilts his head. “Right? I remember eating sweet things a lot.”

Jongin can’t… process this, not right now. His brain is simultaneously firing too fast and moving at a snail’s pace. What does he do with this. He doesn’t want yesterday to happen again.

“You did,” he says, slowly, because it feels safe, and it’s true. “We used to get on your case about it sometimes.”

Rolling his lips in, Sehun furrows his brow. “We?”

“Yeah,” Jongin nods, the shots of espresso drawn now. He quickly tips the contents into the larger mug, one tiny brown point in the middle of the soft steamed milk. The caramel on top comes in the form of a thick, viscous syrup, that Jongin drips in zig zags overtop the drink. He slides it across the table. “Do you remember who ‘we’ is?”

“I don’t think so,” Sehun replies, curling his hands around the mug and pulling it in closer to himself. “I don’t think ‘we’ exists anymore. It might just be me.” He flicks his eyes up, stares Jongin in the face, makes his conjecture a question. “You too, maybe?”

“Ah,” Jongin says, the noise just barely audible. “Maybe.”

Sehun takes a sip, and hums. He licks his lips a few times, and nods. “I think it’s just me.”

Dread settles in Jongin’s gut, heavy and cold.

“What happened?” he whispers. Did they… they wouldn’t hurt the others, would they? They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Not if they want to keep making more of them, like they said. Not unless… “Sehun. Did…”

He looks around at the walls, fleeting. He knows they’re being watched, being listened to. “What did they do?”

Sehun clenches his jaw as he swallows a big gulp of his drink.

“What do you mean?” he asks, licking his lips again. Jongin really does love him, and all his little mannerisms. He taps his fingers on the table.

“Are they okay?” Jongin almost doesn’t want to know.

“I saw some people this morning,” is all Sehun says, before finishing the rest of his drink. The relief (they’re alive) is tangible, and Jongin feels close to collapsing with it. “Are they who you’re worried about? I don’t know them.”

“Mmm,” Jongin hums, hands tight on the edge of the table.

“It’s just me, now,” Sehun says, and why does he keep saying that? It makes fear shiver through him every time. Sehun gets up, and bows to him. “Good luck.”

 

*********

 

They always give him breakfast through a hole in the wall. This morning Jongin can’t bring himself to get up off the cot to go get it, and after the ten minutes they allot to let him eat, the wall opens up with a hiss, and the still full plate is slid back out of the room. Jongin is just staring at the ceiling, turning over his time with Sehun yesterday in his mind repetitively. It’s thoroughly rattled him, shaken him up, and he’s unsure of everything, feels weird and wrong. He’s a long way off from feeling hungry today.

The door beeps before Jongin has been able to finish dressing. The masked guards step into the room as he pulling his shirt on, and his cheeks are red as he emerges from the neck of the shirt. He hates this, hates their gaze, their eyes fixed on him. His lips still crack and hurt when he yawns, his hands still shake when he pulls his clothes off at the end of the day, he still barely breathes every time the guards are in view, their silhouettes bringing nothing but pain and humiliation.

Today, as the guards walk him to the room, the path familiar and short, Jongin clenches his hands into fists at his sides. He concentrates on the steps, one foot in front of the other, moving him forward, moving him towards his friend.

It's Junmyeon today. His leader, his hand to hold, the man who pretty much raised him. The guards deposit him just inside the doorway, and Jongin doesn't relax until the door hisses shut behind them.

He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, before he walks further into the room. The light brown wood of the table, one ivy plant on the far right side of the surface, the tall white chair and dark warmth of the espresso machine on the pristine white counter against the wall, it all feels safe, familiar. He knows he's not safe, not even here, the bruises on his knees reminding him of this, but it feels, even now, like a haven. He gets to see his friends here. That alone makes it good.

The coffee beans smell so good, as they always do, and Jongin is trying not to think about everything Sehun said yesterday, trying not to worry that the guards will come in and tell him something's happened to Junmyeon, that all his friends are gone, that they've finally decided to use Jongin until he dies too.

He shakes his head. Measures out the beans. Come on, Jongin. Do it right.

Jongin is tipping some cinnamon into the milk when the wall hisses, and Junmyeon is brought into the room. Jongin's eyes widen as he takes in his friend's form, limp, draped over the arms of the guards who escorted him here. Jongin just stares, helpless and terrified, as the guards drag Junmyeon to the chair and drop him into it, like he's just a doll.

Jongin has frozen. He's so scared, can't believe what he's seeing when, as the guards leave, Junmyeon slumps forward slowly, tipping gently until he's laying against the top of the table. His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly agape, shoulders barely moving as he inhales and exhales. Jongin sets the milk to steam, and rounds the table.

"Junmyeon, no, no no no," he mutters, terrified to touch him. He risks it, though, putting a hand on Junmyeon's shoulder, the other going to hold his chin, to tip it up so Jongin can inspect his face. He doesn't look bruised, so it isn't physical, which is good in a way, and in a way so much worse. The alarms don't go off, so Jongin supposes they've decided this is allowed for now.

Junmyeon can't even open his eyes. Jongin taps his cheek with his hand, a light slap to try and wake him up, but it does nothing. Jongin makes a little noise in his throat, can feel the horror rising in his throat along with the bile.

"Hey, look at me, hyung," he whispers, voice small. Junmyeon doesn’t respond in any way, so Jongin thumbs his eyelid up, trying to see if his pupils are still light sensitive. They shrink in reaction to the brightness of the room, so Jongin moves his hands to just cup Junmyeon's face.

He remembers what Sehun had said yesterday, that there were no others, not anymore. Is this what he meant? Have they turned all his friends into this?

Jongin gently sets Junmyeon's head back down on the table and lets him go, barely manages to get around the table to the trashbin by the counter before he's throwing up. He didn't eat this morning, so it's mostly dry heaving with a bit of the remnants from last night's basic meal. He shudders over the wastebin for another moment before standing back up. He shivers once more as he rinses his mouth out at the sink, before he turns back to Junmyeon, his leader, slumped unmoving on the table.

The milk is lukewarm now. The espresso shots are dead. There is no use trying the coffee on someone who can barely manage breathing. Jongin fits himself under Junmyeon's limp form and holds him close as the alarms blare, and the guards come in.

Jongin doesn't even shield himself when they hit him across the face with a baton, can't even find it in himself to clench his jaw shut when one of the men gets his cock out and pushes it between his lips, doesn't make a sound when they roll him over and hoist him up onto his hands and knees, one man on either end of him.

He has lost his friends. It's over.

 

*********

 

Jongin was dragged by the hair back to his room last night. This morning he is woken by the sound of heavy boots on the ground, and more pain. They usually don't rape him in his living quarters, but apparently the rules don't matter anymore. They've already destroyed Jongin's team. It's not like they have to care.

It's quick at least. His morning meal is a cock in his mouth and cum down his throat and he coughs, retches, hears the hiss of the little compartment open and his breakfast slide through, a mockery of his situation. The next man is crueler with him. Jongin barely has any thoughts in his mind anymore.

It ends, though, and not with Jongin losing consciousness, for once. All the guards step back, and they watch as Jongin haul himself to his feet and into his clothes. He turns bleary-eyed to them, confused but barely caring. Is it just that they want to move this to another room?

When they turn right as they leave his room, Jongin becomes a little more alert. They're bringing him to the coffee room. But why?

The answer becomes apparent when the door hisses away from the wall to reveal that Minseok is already in there, turning on the chair to look at him expectantly.

Jongin's mind starts firing like crazy. Minseok is fine. Minseok looks _great_.

"Hyung," Jongin says, stumbling forward a couple of steps. Minseok stands, looking alarmed. Wow, he looks _alarmed_ , he looks real and alert and himself. This changes _everything_.

"Hey, hi," Minseok says, standing to come towards him. The door hisses shut behind him, and they're alone. Minseok is the one initiating contact, which means it's okay, and Jongin lets him wrap him up in his arms, solid and warm and so alive. "You okay?"

Jongin thinks back to just five minutes ago, where he'd been and what he'd been forced to do, but banishes those thoughts. Minseok, Minseok is _here_ , and he's holding Jongin and looking at him like he knows him, has just forgotten his name.

"Coffee," is all Jongin says, so he doesn't say anything wrong, anything that could get them in trouble. He breaks away from Minseok's grip, but his hyung sticks close, comes around the table with him.

"I like the plant," Minseok says as Jongin's measuring out the espresso beans. Jongin looks up at it, and then back down at what he's doing. His hands are shaking, he's so overwhelmed, and he jolts when Minseok touches two fingers to his wrist, asks wordlessly for the scoop.

"Talk me through it?" he asks, and Jongin blinks at him, but does as he's asked. He notices that after a few minutes, Minseok begins preempting his instructions, moving to get the little espresso mug before he's told, pulling the lever down to draw the espresso shots smoothly into the cup. His eyebrows are furrowed, like he's thinking really hard about something, and Jongin hopes, hopes, hopes.

When he's done drawing the shots into the cup, he pauses, staring into it for a moment. He lifts his head, slowly, and takes a long drink. Jongin watches him swallow and lick his lips, watches how steady and sure Minseok is when he says, "Jongin."

It's loud enough that the walls can pick it up, there is no confusion, no question. Minseok has remembered.

"Hyung," Jongin breathes, chest so tight and all the weight lifted off him at once.

"What happened to you?" Minseok asks, voice like steel. Jongin feels tears jump to his eyes at the sound of it, at the sight of Minseok looking angry on Jongin's behalf.

"Nothing, hyung," Jongin says. He’s embarrassed, can feel his soul curling in on itself in his mind, shying away from the shame of what’s been forced on him for years. When Minseok raises one eyebrow, amends it. "It doesn't matter now. You're back. You get to stay with me now."

"Yes, Jongin-ah," he says, nodding. He steps forward, the espresso forgotten on the table. "And you're gonna be safe."

Jongin lets Minseok wrap him in his arms again,finally letting the tears spill from him. He tries not to tense when Minseok tilts his head in close, just cries louder. He knows this trick, and it makes his heart kick up in his chest to have Minseok doing it with him again.

"Keep crying," he whispers, and Jongin sobs obediently, clinging closer. They don't have much time, and Minseok clearly has something to say. He pets a hand down Jongin's back as he whispers, "We're gonna get out of here. We're gonna escape."

Jongin's breath hitches. He swallows, squeezing Minseok one more time before pulling back. "Thank you, hyung," is all he says, as if replying to Minseok’s promise of safety, and Minseok smiles at him.

Jongin isn't afraid when the guards come stomping in, this time. Hand in hand with his hyung, Jongin goes back to his quarters with hope blooming gently in his heart.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [(my twt)](https://twitter.com/transjacksn)


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